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After MacLeish

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Poem is not just thudding, mute medallion;
not just dumb, a token. It’s also the big
CAN’T SORRY to a world of worry that this
isn’t enough this, that I’m that, I’m all,
all. Poem is the no to your yes. Ford Escape
hatch from big marketing. It’s a Juul break
when all you wanted was 10,000 spoons. Nothing cat-
chy, poem is death to all catchy. It’s the garbage
to your carefully cleaned & jerked syntax.

Cleaned and shanked.
Filleted. Stripped and hissing on a brazier.

Poems get ya. They know what ya think about.
Know ya secretly hate you, and maybe
not so secretly. Be this thing for a moment.
The tawdry DEAR GOD PLEASE NO when everyone
else nods in unison, “Hey yes, take our photo.
We are in love here. We do nice things now.”
I hate it all, Archibald. This WHAT WE’VE BECOME
when what we had been was cold, a heavy
medal pressed twixt forefinger and thumb.